End Of The Innocence
by gf7
Summary: Sequel to Inconsolable. Barbara deals with the grief surrounding what happened to Helena.


TITLE: End of The Innocence

AUTHOR: Shawn Carter

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SUMMARY: Uh, the sequel to Inconsolable. Barbara's reaction to Helena's death.

* * *

Yes I know its absurd to even think that and yet the words echo like canons through my skull. They bounce against bone and then slam backwards, circling my mind like skaters in a rink. They drop down and hone in for another pass around the guilt circle.

I wonder if he hates me.

Logically perhaps I know that he doesn't. I mean he couldn't. I mean he shouldn't. Right?

I don't know.

I wouldn't blame him.

He's staring at me now, blue eyes boring into my back, ripping through the leather of my chair and cutting right into my shattered spine. I don't know what he's thinking.

That's a lie.

I know exactly what he's thinking.

I'm thinking it too.

How could I not?

I mean how could I? Let her down that is. How could I let her down? How could I let her die?

It should have been me. It should have always been me.

Eight years ago I should have died on the floor of my apartment, in a puddle of my own blood and with my spine hopelessly shattered.

I didn't though.

I made it. I fought back. I swore vengeance on the monsters that had taken my legs and I did it in the name of this grand ideal called justice. I closed my eyes and promised that it would mean something. Like the phoenix I would rise again, stronger and better.

And I did.

Only I didn't.

I hid away in the Clocktower and I let her fight my battle. I let her die for me.

And die she did.

On the grass, blue eyes staring upwards. God that look. That look.

It was all we saw by the time we got there, her anguish spelled out in the graphic nature of her wounds, her torment obvious in the grasping of her shattered hands.

She wasn't just dying, she was crumbling.

So was I.

I don't remember much of that night.

I remember everything.

Like a photo.

Like a grainy one.

It's an oxymoron for sure. A crystal clear grainy black and white photograph is how my mind recalls that night.

We won the battle. We defeated the bad guy. We held our hands up celebration. We spoke of dinner and wine and sleeping until noon. Sore backs, tired knees and scraped elbows.

We lost the war. She died in front of us, not even aware that we were with her in the end. I struggle with that. I always will. I'll never know if she was able to realize that we were there, that I was holding her hands when she stopped breathing, when her chest ceased it's rising action.

Holding it? No, try clutching it with everything I had. Try squeezing it with an urgency I can't even describe.

I don't remember much. I heard sounds that night. I don't recall. I think people were crying. I think it was me. Maybe it was Dinah. Or Reese. Or Gibson. Who knows for sure? So damn foggy.

I think people are crying now.

I think they're supposed to.

Not me. Not me. I don't have that right.

Even here.

It's a funeral and people cry. That's how it is. She was twenty-four and people knew her name. They knew her.

I think on that a moment, on the realization and irony of it all. That she never knew how many lives she touched and affected. That she could never know. She always struggled for her place but could never find a way to settle into one. It was her curse.

Mine too.

My legs gone, I made this my world. I made her my life. My salvation.

My redemption.

My father asked me once before he died what I felt I needed to be forgiven for. He asked me what it was that I thought I'd done that was so horrible that I needed absolution.

My answer had been simple; I had lived through that night and I had been culpable.

And that's my sin today.

Eight years ago my culpability was little more than opening a door when all of my finely honed senses told me not to. That was my sin.

Today it stands far different.

I let her down. I let her die.

It should have been me.

It should have been me eight years ago.

I wonder if he wants to kill me. He's staring at me but I don't dare turn to look at him. He was my mentor, my father, my brother, and my friend. He was a man I looked to for guidance. He was a man who I clung to through his child.

Oh God Bruce I'm so sorry.

If I could make it me I would. I swear to God I would. Please, please forgive me.

No, don't. I don't want forgiveness....I don't....

I turn away from the funeral, my chair's heavy wheels cut tediously into the soft green grass. I see Dinah reach a hand out for me but I move quicker and I head away from her, from it all. I don't get far before I stop. I drop my head into my hands.

My mind spins and whirls. I seek explanation. I seek excuse. I find none. Just bells. And drums. Like a death march.

My redemption is over.

I wonder if he'll kill me.

No, that would be merciful. And mercy has never been the sign of the Bat.

I don't need to see his eyes to feel his pain. He's always been bigger than life. That's why I loved him. That's why I idolized him. And now his open anguish smothers the cemetery and drapes all the mourners in a thick cloak of dark despair.

I'm there too Bruce. Please believe me, I'm there too.

I swallow hard. I close my eyes. I feel my heart swell and for a moment I think it's going to explode and I won't have to face him. Maybe I can escape the torture of his overwhelming grief, of my mind-numbing guilt.

No chance. I'm still alive. Still breathing.

I have to face him. I owe him that.

I owe him the right to kill me if he so chooses. I owe him my life for hers. I promised I would protect her. I failed.

Now I have to stand trial for that.

I turn slowly and I look at him. Our eyes meet, dark pools of blue searing into my watery green. I flinch away from the emotion I see there.

My trial is over.

I have been judged.

I have been found guilty.

I don't plan to appeal.

He's going to kill me.

Oh God Bruce...I'm so sorry.

I blink, I shove back tears. I don't have that right. I let her down. I let him down.

It's more than that. That's too simple. I didn't just fail her a little. I didn't just let her take too hard of a beating from a thug. This isn't nickel and dime and Helena Kyle isn't just taking a nap over in that pretty red box.

No she's dead.

Gone.

Twenty-four and out.

And it should have been me.

Eight years ago.

She would have been better off without me.

She might have turned out normal. She might have...

I don't know. I don't know.

My mind is at war. The logical part of my mind is screaming at me that if I hadn't been there to grab her by the shoulders and stop her from spinning she would have died a whole lot sooner. Seventeen maybe. Eighteen at best.

Logic has no place in grief though and all I can hear is the roars of my fears and doubts. The ones that loudly and openly berate me for including a child in my war.

In my vengeance.

In my redemption.

I sought it through her.

And now I lose it through her.

I feel a hand touch my shoulder. I look up and see Dinah staring down at me, large blue eyes swollen and bloodshot. She tries to speak but all that comes out is a choked and horrified gasp. There are no words.

She tries to give me strength. I want to take it but I have no right. I can't. I won't.

I have to face him. I have to let him see me.

He has that right.

He never knew of her when she was a child. Or so we think. But that's not his way. That's not Bruce.

He knew.

I know it. Even Selina knew it. She just pretended. We all pretended. It made the rage easier to deal with. She could be angry with him for being blind and not seeing the obvious connection and I was able to be indignant that he could leave us to our own fates.

He knew though. He let Selina raise her because he knew her better than anyone. He knew what was inside that woman, he knew just how strongly her heart beat with passion. And he was right. Selina Kyle was an amazing mother.

And when she died Helena went to Alfred and I. And Bruce trusted us to protect her and care for her. And to save her soul.

I failed them all.

And now I have to face him.

I nod to Dinah and push away. She reaches for me but doesn't actually make contact again. Out of the corner of my eye I see Reese put his arms around her and she folds into him, sobbing, breaking.

I wish I could be her.

I want to fall. I want to curl into a ball like I did on that night and I want to cry until I can't, until all I can do is stare at the wall. I want to scream. I want to hit things.

I don't have that energy anymore.

Just this.

It's all I have left.

It's all I am now.

This moment.

Bruce.

God Bruce.

He sees me coming and he walks towards me. I'm struck by his appearance, so tall and beautiful, so sad and shattered. He's wearing a charcoal colored suit but I hardly recognize the quality of it because it seems to blend so effortlessly into the gray dull air of the overcast day.

We stop in front of each other. I try to read his eyes. They're turbulent but I don't know what they're saying. I mean, I think I do. I think I can imagine. I think...oh...oh God...he's going to kill me.

I killed his little girl.

Not with my hands but surely just the same.

"Br....Bruce..." I stammer, my eyes filling with salty tears. I angrily berate myself for cracking so hard. I owe him better. I owe him to at least stand in front of him with some dignity.

He looks back at me but doesn't say anything, eyes watching me in a way that I'm unaccustomed to. He's reading me, taking me in, evaluating me.

He's judging me.

My hands start to buzz and a tremor works it's way up me. I feel a cold shudder spike across what's left of my spine. My heart pounds and the tears start to pour down my cheeks. The voices in my head begin to babble, all of them converging into one pathetic warbling mess.

I'm breaking.

Who am I kidding? I'm broken.

"Bruce," I say again. I'm so..." I can't finish it. I drop my head and break eye contact, ashamed at my cowardice, horrified at my disgraceful behavior.

I hear footsteps. I look up. He's right over me now.

I swallow.

Judgment then.

He reaches for me. I tense. Everyone else around me does as well. I'm aware of them, all of them standing nearby, uneasily watching the scene unfold in front of them. Some of them want to step in, they want to stop it. They don't dare move a muscle though because they know. They know.

This is between he and I. Bruce and Barbara.

Batman and Batgirl. Mentor and protégé.

They're still anticipating the worst though. They're expecting him to rage out at me.

All but Alfred oddly. He seems calm. That confuses me but I don't have time to dwell on it. I close my eyes. I wait. I wait for Bruce's judgement.

I feel his arms surround me. Insanity clouds my mind and I wonder if he plans to crush me to death. I wonder idly if that's how Helena felt when she died. Crushed and shattered, alone and scared.

"Shh," I hear him say. I blink, confused. I don't understand. I open my eyes and look at him. He rests his head on mine, his hard jaw settling against my mess of red hair. "Shh Babs," he murmurs.

"Bruce?" I ask, looking up at him.

He smiles, a sad broken thing. I see tears in his eyes and my soul shakes inside of me. "I'm here Barbara," he tells me.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice little more than a whisper now. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..."

"I got you," he tells me, pressing his mouth to my ear and dropping his voice. "I'm here."

I look up at him. I expect rage but all I see is pain. I see the mirror of his eyes and I see me. I see failure and loss. I see grief and anguish.

We both let her down.

We've both been tried and found wanting.

He wraps his arms around me and squeezes. He buries his head into my hair and I can feel him shake for a few long moments. I circle my arms around his torso and we're holding each other. He's sobbing into me, his thick body trembling forcefully against me as the shudders of grief rack their way through him.

Finally he looks up and the tears, the grief, all of it's back inside. He's composed again, so cool and collected.

I can't be that. I wasn't built that way.

I don't want to be that way.

I squeeze my hand. He returns the gesture.

There's nothing more to say.

There's no absolution here.

There's just the fight.

That's what we have left in this moment. That's the bitter gunk at the bottom of the bottle of anguish.

We can't walk away. We can't stop. This fight slow for no one, even a hero.

Tomorrow there will be new villains and I will have to stand tall again. I don't want to.

It's not my choice.

It wasn't hers either.

She didn't want this life but try as she might she couldn't deny the call of it. It was like a siren's song to her. She could protest and rage against her but it was her poison.

It's mine too.

I'll die doing this. So will he.

So will Dinah and Reese and probably even Alfred.

And Dick and Tim and everyone else. They're not here today because of the fight. They're on active duty. Titans. Outsiders. Fighting. It never stops.

Bruce leans down to me as the preacher starts to speak again. He whispers into my ear," It means something."

I swallow. Bruce is not an idealist. He's not much for fancy slogans and hopeful phrases. Propaganda and battle cries are worthless to him. It's all about the cold brutality of the battle. His words echo in my head and I stare back at him, searching for meaning in the statement.

He repeats them. "This fight means something. We're not doing it just because. It means something."

I nod slowly. He's right.

It has to.

This fight, her death, the deaths of all the heroes that have come before her, they mean something. They have to.

They must.

My resolve tightens, my anger hardens. I pull back inside. My soul moves a step closer to his. I become more like him. Not completely though. I'm still me. Still Barbara Gordon, still the proverbial keeper of the light so to speak.

That was her title for me.

Whatever the hell it meant.

The fight never stops.

We keep going.

We never forget.

It has to mean something. Her death has to mean something.

It will.

I squeeze his hand again. He squeezes mine. Our eyes connect.

We fight.

Because we have to.

Because it's our salvation.

Because it's our curse.

I don't want this. I don't have a choice. None of us do.

We just do it.

I'm not letting you go then. Not yet Helena, not yet. I'm not ready to let you go. Not for a while. I still need you.

I need you to make me strong.

You've already started.

You brought Bruce home.

Now help me find the courage to keep fighting with you. Help me find the strength to care about what it means.

I catch his eyes again. He smiles at me, his lips curving just a bit. We marvel a bit at the irony of his homecoming.

He's still home.

Home to fight.

That's a start.

I won't forget. I'll never forget.

The preacher finishes his sermon. Rain drizzles down and scrapes splatters against ground. Just a few drops.

I see you're making a statement huh?

It speeds up. Takes on a tempo.

A loud and obnoxious one.

Yeah, definitely you then.

The fight continues. It always continues.

I close my eyes, I make a promise.

The rain slows. It calms.

I smile. Gotcha.

A drop hits me in the temple, runs down my face.

Okay then. Sure, get the last word in.

Do me a favor, keep doing that.

Don't stop. I still need you.

I'll find a way to get through this. With Dinah and Alfred. With Bruce. I will. I'll make myself stronger. I'll make it.

Not today though.

Today let it be gray. Let the sky party. Let it all out.

I miss you. Oh God I miss you.

I'll never forget Hel. Never.

And I'll never stop fighting either.

I promise.

Forgive me.

I open my eyes. I take a rose.

This isn't goodbye.

I put it on the coffin next to the others. The many others.

It's just a new battle. A new stage. Same war.

I rest my forehead against the wood.

And we will win.

Dinah puts her arms around me.

Or die trying.

I put my hands over hers.

But we will not be defeated. We will not lose.

We move away together.

Goodnight my friend. I'll see you in the morning. Just in a different way I guess.

I'll never forget.

And I guess I'll keep the light on.

-FIN


End file.
